


shadows on snow (like bruises)

by inlightofvisa



Series: The McCall-Hale Diaries [26]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: But mostly fails at it, Derek is trying to use his words, Emotional Constipation, Flashbacks, Hence the emotional constipation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:59:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlightofvisa/pseuds/inlightofvisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek knows (rather personally) that Stiles bruises very easily. He also knows that Stiles isn't too popular with people at school. There was also this game that Scott and Stiles played when they were little that they called Hill Race. Derek called it Attempting to Fall Down a Hill While Sustaining the Least Amount of Injury Possible. Regardless, there was a reason that Scott and Stiles had stopped playing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shadows on snow (like bruises)

**Author's Note:**

> Now for the price of one, two McCall-Hale Diary comics rolled into ONE fic! I'm trying to find time to write these, and that time is very nonexistent. So please forgive the super lateness and the super not quality.

It all starts off with a bruise on Stiles shoulder. Derek grabs Stiles by said shoulder one afternoon as Stiles is barging through the door and he winces away from Derek’s hand.

“Wha-oops?” Derek says apologetically. Stiles looks at him sheepishly and then falls into Derek’s arms, sighing.

“Lacrosse,” Stiles says, and Derek nods understandingly.

“Be careful,” he says quietly. Stiles kisses him on the cheek, and Derek somehow misses that Stiles doesn’t smell like cheap, shitty locker room soap.

* * *

 

Stiles comes home with Scott early the next Tuesday, smelling like freshly fallen rain. Derek wraps him up in his arms and tops it all off with a kiss.

“Mom’s not home,” he purrs.

“But _I_ am,” Scott yells from in the kitchen. “Oh my _God_ Derek, can you please just not-”

“Shut up Scott,” Derek snaps, walking himself and Stiles back towards the stairs. “If you have a problem, just… use headphones. Or go to Allison’s.”

“I’m out,” Scott says, putting a hand up in resignation and all but fleeing out the door. Derek smirks and then looks back at Stiles

“Now, where were we,” he says, voice gravelly. Stiles wriggles.

“Your mother isn’t home,” Stiles says slowly. “And we’re going to do the horizontal tango. Very loudly.”

“It’s like you read my mind,” Derek says as he hoists Stiles up, ascending the stairs as carefully as possible. Stiles just leans on Derek’s shoulder, occasionally nipping at Derek’s throat or his ear.

“Well,” Stiles says, “It’s not like we’re _dating_ or anything.” Derek rolls his eyes, huffing fondly. He dumps Stiles on his bed unceremoniously before sliding out of his sweatshirt. Stiles looks at Derek carefully before fumbling out of his clothes. He covers his side with one hand, and then attempts to unbutton his jeans. Derek gives Stiles a look, the one Stiles calls Smolder Number Eight, for use in situations where Derek knows that Stiles is either hiding something, or full of shit. Or both. “What?”

“Are you seriously going to try and unbutton your pants with only your left hand,” Derek asks flatly. Stiles nods vigorously.

“It’s an exercise I’m doing,” he quips. “I’m trying to become ambidextrous.”

“Uh huh,” Derek says, eyebrows in an angry line. He knows that Stiles has coined that as the No Bullshit Barricade of Belligerent Feelings, and he uses it. Stiles stares back at him for a few moments before lifting his hand from his side in silent defeat. Well, as silent as Stiles can get.

“Fine,” he sighs dramatically, leaning back on his arms. “Why don’t _you_ do it, almighty Undoer of the Pants.”

Derek blows him a kiss, winking at him before getting to work on Stiles’ fly. But as he’s working on getting Stiles’ long, gangly legs out of pants, Stiles’ hand sneaks back into place on his side. Derek looks back up at Stiles.

“What?” Stiles asks, looking indignant. “You keep on doing what you doing.”

“Move your hand,” Derek says, voice and face stern.

“What?” Stiles attempts to look perplexed. “I like my hand there. It feels good. It’s like a kink, you know? Touching yourself in non-erogenous places. It’s a Thing amongst the youngsters nowadays.”

Derek growls and shoves Stiles’ hand off his side to reveal a bloom of purple. He snarls.

“What happened to you?” he asks.

“Lacrosse practice?”

Derek levels at Stiles with a glare, pursing his lips. This is reminding him a little bit too much of the time when Scott and Stiles were kids caught up in their latest New Game, which was called Race-Each-Other-Down-The-Tallest-Hill-in-Beacon-Hills-and-Whoever-Is-Last-Is-A-Butt. Ultimately, the game had culminated in far too many injuries to count and they’d been forced to stop. And all that trouble had started with a bruise on Scott’s side, and blood streaming down Stiles’ six year-old leg.

“What did you guys do?!” Derek had all but shrieked, wetting a rag in water and dabbing it at Stiles’ knee.

“We were playing Hill Race again,” Stiles had said meekly.

“Scott, call Mom,” Derek shouted, trying in vain to clean up the rest of the blood. “Stiles, you’re going to need stitches, and it’s gonna hurt and you’re gonna cry, and—”

“No,” Stiles had said, biting his lip and looking at Derek through shining eyes. “Mom said I’m strong, and that I can handle it.” That had gotten to Derek, and so he had stopped ragging on Stiles for not being able to deal with things from that day on, even in jest.

“You didn’t have lacrosse today, which is why you’re home early,” Derek says, looking at Stiles worriedly. “Do you remember Hill Race?”

Stiles nods slowly.

“So?”

Derek squares his shoulders.

“So, I don’t want to see you get hurt like that again. It’s one thing to get stitches and deal with it, but…”

“You don’t have to worry about me Derek,” Stiles says softly, running his hands through Derek’s hair. “I’m strong, remember? Mom said so.”

Derek leans his forehead against Stiles’ chest and inhales quietly, breathing in the unique Stiles scent.

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs. He feels Stiles’ chest work underneath him, lean muscles rippling beneath skin. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt. Is there anything wrong at school?”

Stiles chuckles, leaning his head on Derek’s and kissing his hair.

“Nothing that I can’t handle,” Stiles whispers. “And if I ever need your help, I’ll tell you.”

Derek feels Stiles’ arms wrap around his neck tightly.

“Promise?” Derek asks, keeping his head on Stiles’ chest. He feels Stiles nod.

“Promise,” he says. “Now get your clothes off, you claimed this was a booty call.”


End file.
